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He remembered that night vividly. The Tournament. Cedric. The graveyard. The pain. Voldemort’s return. All of it still carved into his bones. But that wasn’t what had kept him awake.
It was her.
It was always her.
Years later, on a morning much quieter than even Privet Drive could manage, Harry stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie with trembling fingers.
His reflection didn’t look like the boy who once lay awake in that small, miserable room. He looked… older, maybe. Wiser, though he doubted that. Mostly, he looked like someone on the edge of something extraordinary.
Today, he was marrying Hermione Granger. Soon she will be Mrs. Hermione Potter.
His Hermione.
“I was just a boy in pain, didn’t know what to do with all the ache in my chest…”
He could almost see her again, sitting beside him at the Black Lake.
He remembered it clearly—her arm against his, her voice calm and warm. She had saved him from more than just a tournament that year. She had started healing something broken in him.
******
Harry’s pulse thrummed in time with his spellbound memories. Every moment led here:
*“Baby, you’re my soulmate, you’re my ride or die
I know what you hate, and I know what you like…”*
He thought of her stubborn brilliance and her unwavering compassion—the quirks he adored, the values they’d both sworn by. She was more than love: she was destiny.
*“…’Cause baby, you’re my soulmate, the love of my life
The love of my life.”*
In the shadow of war, amid stitches of fear and hope, she had stood fast. She’d known what he hated—failure, betrayal, being forgotten—and what he liked—justice, learning, loyalty. She anchored him.
As he watched Hermione appear between lavender blooms in ivory, he was struck by her beauty: Hermione’s dress was a vision of quiet enchantment—an ivory-white gown that clung gracefully to her figure, elegant in its simplicity yet brimming with timeless detail.The fabric shimmered faintly in the golden light, not from sequins or crystals, but from enchantments woven into the thread itself—like moonlight stitched into every seam. The neckline was modest yet graceful, dipping into a soft V, drawing the eye to a lace inlay that hinted at blooming roses and twisting vines.
*“It’s hard to explain what I feel
I don’t wanna live without you another day…”*
They had faced endless pages of dread: curses in dark corridors, nights of silence and loss. Yet every broken dawn became brighter with her by his side. He didn’t want another sunrise without her.
*“…If you’d only see what I see
You turn all my darkness into a better place.”*
She healed him—not with magic, but with presence. Her laugh chased away echoes of Azkaban. Her insistence on saving people, not breaking them, reformed him. She made everything better.
When she finally reached him, hands trembling but ready, he felt:
*“I feel my heart is beating when you are close to me
Don’t wake me, I’m not dreaming…”*
Time slowed. Wizards and witches around them blurred. All that remained was her.
He took her hands. She smiled through tears. The sun dipped lower.
*“To me, you’re the one who sees who I really am
Baby, you’re there when I need
To be in your arms, you make me a better man.”*
That night, under the twinkling lamps of the Burrow’s backyard, they danced—it felt like the world’s first dance. Harry whispered his vows, his voice both steady and soft:
Harry:
“Every version of me—braver, younger, broken—would find you again. Not just in this life, but across all lives. You are my soulmate, my ride or die. I promise to know what you hate and to cherish what you love. You’ve turned my darkest days into something beautiful.”
Hermione’s eyes brimmed as she answered:
Hermione:
“I love you—every bit. The ride, the die, the fight, the calm. You made me better, Harry.”